Return

A life led well in good graces.
Smiling often, traveling places.
Banishing the darkness, only seeing the light.
Yet on the way she struggled.
Her heart and mind, forever muddled.
For in all that time she’d never found someone who was right.
People were kind, and she made them smile.
And she would stay for a little while.
Before the itch began to scratch underneath her skin.
Forever searching, but never finding.
That one to love, always hiding.
She wandered lonely still until a sudden call within.
Took her away from the crazy city.
The maddening pulse, of pride and pity.
And beckoned her back to the wild from where she’d came.
Through the trees and forests before her.
She made her way, the hidden eyes a stir.
Until she saw the tuffs and silk of a lycanthropic mane.
She felt at home in this new scene.
He wondered where on earth she’d been.
Reminding her that this had once been her home.
And in her smile there came a knowing.
A familiar feeling, a happiness showing.
That now back with nature, she would never be alone.

Forever Winter (part 11)

The Story so far or Listen to this episode


ORIGINS WITH Oranges

To an untrained eye, the book was nothing special. It did not scream magic or invitations to thumb its precious pages. It actually went out of its way to look ordinary. Tea stains and scuffed leather, what looked like dust was really tiny particles of used magic covering the book, misleading vestiges of wonder. She kept her magic bible on the sideboard in her kitchen, next to the wooden spoons and ladles. She usually had a bowl of oranges nestled on top, keeping the vast pages pressed down and crisp, the smell of citrus in the air. A quick glance at the book would not rouse a curious mind, yet within the pressed bits of trees held such secrets and magic; it was practically priceless.

​Although she may have handled the book in a casual way, the lady of the jars was very careful and appreciative of it. She did not take her powers for granted, and she knew that the book and she were intertwined on a fatalistic level. Over time, notes and incantations had been scribbled on the pages, adding a depth and personal quality to the spells.

They moved into the kitchen, the girl now dressed in trousers and a shirt with a huge pullover jumper keeping her warm. The cable knit had been something the lady had whipped up last year, enthusiastically knitting away with love and excitement and creating something which practically trailed the floor. Of course, there were snowflakes on the pattern.  The girl pushed up the sleeves and followed behind her towards the table which sat by the south facing window, looking out down towards the stream. Snow covered the ledge, but in the misty fog of the flurry you could make out the shapes of the world moving about in their winter havoc.

The lady dropped the teacups in the sink and went over to her book, picking up an orange with her and heading over to the table. She motioned for the girl to sit down, offering her the fruit while she took her own seat and flicked open the pages. The smell of the paper was enticing, spices and whiffs of exotic breezes drifted from the spine. She scanned the contents, gazing as if for the first time upon the words.

​“Imamiahi….My, they are rare aren’t they. I know my grandmother spoke of one in her life. That was around the time of the great enlightenment of course. Makes sense. How much darker things have gotten since? My my. People never learn I’m afraid.” The lady chatted, scanning the pages for what she was looking for. The girl watched her, rolling the orange back and forth on the oak table between her small hands.

“How much do you know of this then?” The girl asked.

“Oh, a little here and there. I know you don’t view this process as a death, or an ending.” The lady did not see the girl flinch.

“No, we do not die in that sense.” The girl spoke, almost as if frightened of the word death. The rolling of the orange had stopped.

“No, death is not the end, I believe that also; and I know what you’re here for is not to die; but to become. More like a phoenix. Are you familiar with that?” The lady asked, kindly.

​“Yes, very much so. I know of this bird. We have creatures on Europa that dwell in the ice caverns. They are a little like the birds on this planet, except their bodies are frozen vapour that move in orbs which grow. Each year they rise up out of the tunnels and caves to the warmer temperatures where the layers of vapour explode, reducing them down to their original forms. The vapour allows us to breathe, it’s the cosmic breath of the planet under the ice.”

“Amazing! I always wondered how life operates on the other worlds. You must be at home her with all the snow then?” The lady asked, expectantly.

“Yes, it reminds me a lot of what I do miss.” She said, adding, “But there is a lot to see here too. You for one. I know not everyone is like you. I’ve seen a lot of darkness here before. I only feel light here with you.”

“This world is everything, the light and the dark and the pulls of the in-between. There are good people who make bad choices, and there are bad people waiting to make the right ones. No one is fully lost or beyond change.” She suddenly made a little ‘Yelp’ which made the girl jump slightly.

​“…Ah here it is, Imamiahi!” She said, excitedly, before reading out the passage:

‘Imamiahi are very sacred beings. Travelling across the skies to dwell on earth. Sometimes their trips can be a time and age, others will be gone in a blink of an eye. The Imamiahi will pick the barer, they will travel from the edges of space to come to our material level and offer us the most wonderful gift. Though their intentions will at times be complicated, they are very empathetic and feed off the thoughts, feelings and emotions of the barer they have chosen. Be mindful, your consciousness will not only affect the Imamiahi, but the environment around you with them.

Their purpose here is always the same, to shed a layer of themselves or part of their celestial DNA that has ceased to operate to any purpose. They are well meaning, and through their own transformation, they impact those here on earth. The shedding of the layer forces time to flux, for deeds to be undone that were negative. A deep- clean of souls in order to go on with a clearer mind for change. For this to occur, certain practises must take place, and must be in place for it to happen…

The lady lifted the page briefly to see what was listed on the next.

​“There’s a note here.” the lady said, before reading out:

‘Though the Imamiahi will have a choice to decide when this is all to take place, certain things can propel the process to be forced or demanded. This can stem from fear, threat, duress or the instant salvation. In the worst case, this will take place to reduce everything back to the beginning. A time explosion.
As barer, you are the guardian as well as the watcher.

​The lady thought on this a second or two, before smiling at the girl.

“Well, prepare for the worst but hope for the best I say. Let’s see what we need to do then. I hope a good ole conjuring is needed. It’s been a while since I invoked some of the deep earthy magic.” She said, licking the lips in her mind to the thought of something exciting.

​The girl smiled back appreciatively, knowing deep inside she had chosen the right barer for her. She knew she hadn’t told her everything; the book itself said some Imamiahi would have complicated agendas; and hers were a little more than unusual. But she would tell her when the time was right. She looked out of the window, watching the snow tumbling down, the tufts of white resting momentarily on the glass before bleeding into the drifts already there. She watched the world there in that little cottage and lifted the orange to her mouth and bit into it like an apple.


Try

The vessel inside overflows.
Screaming to expand.
The trying, the tearing.
The overcometh of each battle, each day.
As those warriors say.
We leave nothing but our trail.
Blood and candles to light the way for others.
A legacy gilds the petal of our history.
The bloom of overcome.
The fragrance of succeeding.
In the skin that sheared from the bone.
And tears the weep from eyes that have seen tomorrow.
We sleep an eternal rest, knowing that we tried.
So now sweet moment, which I gather in it’s lustre.
I be present with you, and smile at the strength it took to make it.
Where I fall, may there be lilies and lotus flowers.
Marking the space as sacred and inviting.
An organic tombstone to one, who did nothing but try.

Wichita eyes

In the night they burn.
Fireflies trapped in an amber jar.
Smelling the sand on my skin.
The dust-bowl offerings to a world of plenty.
Wichita eyes follow me.
Bar stamped and ready.
Hovering over something entirely.
Waiting to be consumed.
Where do you go now motel boy?
Burning holes through my skin.
Somersaulting in and turning my blood to milk.
The day fades away, blackening the eyelids of the young.
The eyes always ready.
Waiting for tomorrow.

Shell of imaginary imagination

Caught in the tangled weeds of busy nothing.
A mind fraught and frayed in the vines of life.
I wait for god to cut me free.
Yet in my sleepy weariness I hear.
A starlight voice that tickles the back of my neck.
And turns each shake into a shiver.
God whispers.
It’s all an illusion.
Your garden is your own.
And the demons are just voices trying to find a home.

Forever Winter (part 10)

The Story so far or Listen to this episode


Watchers in the woods

The little cottage by the stream was a lovely thing to behold. It filled every notion of quaint and picturesque, and with the white snow whipping around it and settling on its old oak windowsills and thatched roof, it may have seemed magic was its maker. But this was not the case. The lady of the jars put much time and effort keeping her little home pretty and practical. She tended the garden when she chose the spring seasons, and at the rear of the paddock she kept a giant domed greenhouse, full of orchids, dahlias, hibiscus and all manner of strange and unique plants. All kept under the huge dome, now this she had bewitched, repelled the snow and kept the natural light shining in, bathing the plants with the life-giving ultraviolet rays.

Aesthetic wise, her house was all her own doing. But for the maintenance and security, the magic she knew dripped through every stone and brick. She was not against a bit of hard work, and she had known years of toil and trauma as much as the next person. She did use her magic to keep the house dust free (though she had some jars filled with dust that she tainted different colours, shaking them and watching the motes shimmer in the coloured light), and a little help with the laundry and such; was merely a perk of knowing the inner workings of such deep and sacred magic. She also held spells and incantations over her little abode which kept it safe and secure; warding off bad spirits and deeds which promised to slither in with the shadows. But inside she was safe, and she knew it.

Outside, creeping around the back and down towards the stream, the gentleman of the boxes pushed through the huge snow drifts that had piled up by the hedgerow. He knew the place was safe for her, he knew he would have a battle on his hands if he were to challenge anything here against the lady of the jars. And he didn’t want to do that now, or perhaps anytime.

A part of him knew something must be done, but for now his curious mind and eyes were searching the backyard for it. The place where she had landed. It had already been covered in so much snow that the scorched outline in the ground would be, to an average eye, hard to see. But with a magical twinkle that now twirled in his own lenses, he could see, even feel the place where heaven and earth collided.

He moved slowly, bending down every few steps to pick up a little piece. Digging his fingers into the white covering and extracting the soil, droplets of blue that permeated the thick black earth. They looked like tiny sapphires speckled in the ground, the residue from the cocoon craft that had landed not long ago. He knew that only a grain of this would be precious to him, to fill only one of his little matchboxes would give him foresight and energy, to be able to cancel out the retched snow and bring back the blaze of the summer sun.

He collected what he could, searching for the large chunks of matter that sparkled abnormally in the dead snowy light. Too concerned about his diamonds in the dirt, he did not notice the others. The eyes that had appeared in the woods all around him. For it was not just the gentlemen of the boxes who longed for the new gift from the stars, but others as well.

They watched him. His dominant gait slinking abnormally along the path towards the cottage. He moved like a shadow, whereas they moved like ghosts. Only noticeable if they wished to be seen. Spectres of the forest for now as they hid their figures and their intent. Woken from their slumber by the power dwelling now in the cottage by the stream, it had cracked open their hibernation and murmured within their DNA. They quickly gathered, shaking off the sleep of a thousand years and rattling like old bones in the clearing.

Collecting themselves and moving on mass to the throb of the heart that was warming itself by the fire, sipping tea and eating blueberry tarts. They watched, their eyes translucent like the stream that ran behind the cottage, following the shadowed man collecting the fallen shards of space, pocketing them in the deep caverns of his coat. They watched, they whispered, then vanished into the ground.

“And it is your home, as long as you want it to be. I know you mean in the bigger picture, the bigger sphere of this planet, this space in time. But my home, my little life, is here for you if you need it. I want to help you, and I know why you must be here. Please, let me be the guide for you in this place.” The lady of the jars said, her heart shifting inside.

“You know why I am here then?” The girl asked her.

“Yes, I know. It’s been foretold in a way. Well, I’ve read about it and I feel it within me. I’ve been feeling it for a while now, something on the horizon about to appear. Like a dream where I reach out and grab something like a rainbow, beautiful, but untouchable.” She added.

“I understand. I would like for you to help; I know this might be hard for you though.”

“It is time, I think. Locked away in my little cottage, doing good but not seeing the wider world. It is time for me, I think. So let’s get started. You need some decent clothes, and I need my book.” She said, heaving herself up out of the seat, quickly snatching up a stray blueberry from the tin and throwing it into the air, catching it in her mouth. “Time waits for no Europan!”


Something to stay awake for – Turn of the tide

Listen to this episode.


[SPASH!]

It had started out as such a beautiful day. The tangerine sun above glistened down unknowingly on the little boat that bobbed on the waves like a cork. The vast expanse of ocean to one side of him shimmered into the distance, being pulled into a far-off string that he knew led to anywhere. The steep cliffs on his other side gleamed, the enamel of the sea that burst forth and up high like teeth of a sleeping beast. The occasional rocks would tumble down into the unusually calm waters beneath, kicked over the edge by the people, families and dog walkers he saw now wandering along the cliff edges. He watched as they called out to him, their faces blurred in the distance of separation, but their jolly waving arms and outstretched hope of the children’s excitement did nothing for his mood.

He returned those waves of course. The friendly little sailor off on his boat on the Elysian morning, dropping all troubles in his wake as he sailed towards the sun.

But they didn’t know.

The day betrayed his thoughts. The sun that stared down at him seemed to mock his melancholy. He didn’t begrudge the happiness he saw that day. The happy families walking, the smiling people on the beach who skimmed some stones and took in the fresh salty air. The woman with the flowers at the water’s edge. He wasn’t even jealous of their carefree attitude that warm August day.

He wanted to forget. He wanted to forget that he’d been that happy. That each day by day moment, of making a cup of tea or driving to the store was now riddled with the memory of them. The happiness clung to him like a terrible oil, never washing off. Reminding him each second, he would never have it again.

Now that they were gone.

He tried to shut the world out at first. Keeping to himself and the shuffling of the indoors life like a caged bird. Wallowing in his own droppings of depression. Nothing had helped. No conversation to make him make sense of it. No well-intentioned trip somewhere to change his environment or to talk to someone who had been through it before. His world had been darkened, as if someone had placed a veil over his source of light, and now he stumbled around just surviving.

But what for, he’d begun to wonder.

They were no longer there to share the happy times. The little moments that string together for a life. The Sunday morning lay-ins while you run your fingers through their hair. Disappearing into each other’s minds and being lost forever in the eyes that had always drawn him in. Beckoning him like a sea siren that he’d eagerly given himself up to. The beauty in their heart that he longed to only touch for a moment.

And now, each day was a collection of those little moments. But turned ghastly. Like a kebab of mud and dog shit skewed into a new day.

But not today. Today, he taken out that little boat of theirs and set out to sea with the intention of never returning.

[Oh please God. Please, let someone come. Let them come by.]

He began to drift further out to sea now. The tide pulling him on that cord to the horizon. He cursed the sun, its blazing intensity itching his neck and blinding him as it caught the waves. The beach behind him began to melt away, and he felt the creeping peace of the detached. He wasn’t sentimental, but he had brought the ring. The ring they wore, and his own of course. He’d put it on this morning. It didn’t fit comfortably on any of his fingers, they were just so different. Thrown together in a cosmic joke of opposites. Like orange juice to his toothpaste. Oh, the fights they’d had. He twisted the little silver thing now on his finger, turning it round and picturing the last time he’d seen it on their hand. That angry day. He shook his head and found a nicer memory. But this made him more restless, remembering again that it had vanished, never to be seen again.

It was then that a plump grey cloud floated across the sun above him. He looked up curiously, then he felt it. The wind had changed, and a fierce breeze had picked up. He looked out to sea further and he could see it now, the billowing thick black clouds that threatened a storm.

[The waves crashed and swallowed him over again. Spinning him around and throwing him back up to the surface where he gulped in the air and heavy rain which pounded down. He knew these were the last moments, but inside a fire kindled still. Please God. Please, let there be a way.]

He smiled then. Perfect, what a way to go. He wasn’t ashamed of what he was doing, but this way it will look like tragic accident. Less people hurt. Less questions. Less self-analysing on every interaction people had had with him. Could they have done more, should they? What was he doing out at sea in the first place? Of course, they’d ask that. ‘Oh, don’t you remember, they had that boat. Oh Yes, they both loved those little adventures. Oh dear, how terribly sad’.

He could hear it all now, playing out like the end of a film. He didn’t really want to die. But he had nothing left to live for. They weren’t coming back, and he’d built a life around that. He couldn’t change things; they grew into a horrible thorny bush that refused to be cut back; and for that he’d given up. He watched how fast the storm blew his way, his little sailboat rocking heavily in the building surge. He knew there were terrible currents in this area. It seemed nearly every week in the busy season swimmers were dragged out to sea, like invisible seadogs pulling them out and down to meet Poseidon. Hidden riptides were a real killer in this stretch of the coast, and too many people found this out the hard way. He watched the swells and waited for the rain which began almost instantly as the clouds took hold and choked out the sun.

It fit his mood. The rain, the darkness. He imagined some slumbering monster to come up from the deep and seize his boat. A great leviathan that he could stare into the eye of and succumb to as it tore him to shreds. The sweet relief of death.

[Gasping. Aching. Lungs heavy. He struggled to open his eyes as the salt water washed through them like an unabated flood. Time to shut off. Time to shut down. You cannot go on, the tiny voice in his head said. That opponent who always brought the worst. God, why won’t you help me? It spluttered…. Wait. I will not end it like this. There is a way. Someone will come. Hope in hope. He told himself, and pictured a boat drifting hauntingly towards him, outstretched arms to come and rescue his weary bones.]

He took off his shirt, letting the sea spray splash against his chest. He wanted to feel something, anything before the end. He wanted to curse the sea for what it was doing and embrace it all at the same time. The conflicting light and dark that was within him and shifted like a sand in a pot of water. Swirling in a confused state of inaction. He wanted to be brave and turn his boat around. He wanted to be strong and dive headfirst into the waves and drown a million deaths and be gone.

And then he spotted him. A tiny head, no bigger than that of a pebble, floating on the sea like it had been placed there by God.

He shook himself, trying to dislodge the image. The trickiness of life, trying to get him to reconsider. To go home, procreate. Settle down and carry on. He rubbed at his eyes, but the image didn’t change. Instead it now came with sound. The shouts of a boy calling for help.

In his head, he’d always wanted to be good. That he’d be a good person no matter what was thrown at him through life. That he would do the right thing when called for. But he was ashamed to say he did not move straight away. His first thoughts did not fly to steering his little boat over to the boy and rescuing him. It wasn’t fear, shock or any other rationale response. He simply watched the scene for a few minutes for the sheer disgusting beauty of it all. The tragedy at his hands and before his eyes like a great Greek scene played out on a canvas before him. The rolling waves, the heavy rain. The black clouds like a collapsed volcano above. He had no notion of being the hero, but there was something there. Like the beauty of a funeral in the ugly face of death that he savoured. Momentarily.

[There! Is it? Of course, it is, I knew they’d come. They just had to.]

He steered his little boat over to the boy and reached into the sea and helped him out. He was heavy and broken. Battered by the waves and exhausted by staying afloat for so long. The riptide of course that had ensnared him, pulverised him into the eyes of death. Plucked him away from the beach that he was swimming by, his dad napping under a sun umbrella the last time he saw him. It had felt like an age, and he couldn’t guess how long he’d been out to sea for. Safe inside the boat now, he smiled an exhausted smile and thanked the man before passing out, waking up later in the hospital with his dad by his side.

After pulling him into the boat, the boy had thanked him and collapsed into a heap. He rushed to get a blanket from down in the cabin, hurrying back and covering the boy. He must get back as quick as he could. But the wind and the rain, the sea and his early wishes of disaster were too strong. Ensnared in the thick of the storm, the boat was pulled out further and further. The land but a distant blur to him now. He watched as the waves crashed over his bow, the sleeping sea monster now fully awake, causing havoc.

He had set out that day with a simple wish. To disappear completely. But something inside him shifted, something he knew was there all along. He never wanted to live just to live. There was no reward to just surviving in a life. Too many people shuffled day to day, along the road of an unchanging existence. Being the same person when they die, to how they lived. His own God had died in him long ago. Swept out to sea in the sad goodbyes and people he could not keep close. He wasn’t swayed by the sentimental timely appearance of the boy in the boat. The young life so innocent and full of years ahead.

He would save him, yes. But it hadn’t melted his heart in the way that was expected. Instead, as he’d looked into the scared and thankful eyes of the boy, he saw a hope, a thirst; a need for something that he recognised. More than survival, but of a certainty of living and being. It was as if a layer had peeled off his heart, and just a crack of light had shone inside. This boy, who had everything before him, could be snuffed out on this sea, without the course of a life to change from what he had come to this planet as. He himself had sunk lower than the depths of those shipwrecks beneath him now. Not seeing the sun or the light. But a stirring within him whispered of change. Of a great reveal of something. He no longer wanted to die. He wanted to return to the coast, for reasons he now understood.

He swung the boat a hard turn to port and screwed his eyes in a determination towards the storm. He hoped to make it towards the inlet on the eastern side of the bay. He knew this to be better protected, and it might give him a chance. He hoped for a small break in the weather so he could get his bearings a little. His hand dug into his pocket, and he felt the ring inside there, strangely warm in his hand. He looked off into misty rain and he searched for a way, hoping for a change. And then, suddenly the rain halted.

He smiled. Not on his face which was soaked in spray and tears, but inside, feeling a little bit of the black melt away.

“So, did anyone catch his name?” the doctor said, scratching copious notes onto her clipboard. She struggled to believe much of what she had been told. The boy’s condition did not fit the events of the day. He was sleeping now, but what his body had been through, did not show on the tests or in appearance.

“No-one did, no. He just appeared, calling for an ambulance. I knew it was Michael there though, and I was just relieved to see him again.” His father said, sipping the black coffee that had appeared moments before from his daughter who had returned from the hospital canteen.

“Quite the mystery then. But it looks as though Michael is out of the woods.” She said, clicking her pen and putting it into her pocket. She wasn’t one for fairy tales, she was busy; and had no time to indulge in mystery angels or heroics. She saw heroes every day in her colleagues, she knew there was a reality to miracles they performed that went unnoticed. “We’ll monitor him overnight, but I would advise getting some rest yourself. The events of the day have probably taken a toll on you also.”

“I just hope we can find him is all. I want to thank him for saving my son’s life.” The man said, snuffling a little, not used to being emotional in front of strangers. She smiled a fraction, her heart always warmed by appreciation.

“Hope in hope.” she said, and turned to leave the little hospital room, which had a view of the sea from high up on Bartholomew hill. The waves now much calmer, the gods of the ocean pacified it seemed for the time being.


More fables here.

HARLEY HOLLAND

Thursdays were always hardest for the balloon artist. Scratch that word out. To link what Anton Smith did to art was a cruel jab to the great creatives. Anton was a public service clown. It was his job. His service to the state until he could find some small lottery in learning a skill which could get him a real job. Owned by the state until debts could be cleared. And it was his job to make people forget. And on Thursday’s, people found it extra hard to forget the tragedy at Peanut Sunset estate where he patrolled. It was given its name after one of the most satisfactory colours a person could tolerate according to public survey. All the new estates were. They sounded more like fictional resorts on Sesame Street to Anton. Marble Hill was still there though. What was left of it would block the sun from…

View original post 1,030 more words

Bloom

Creak and crack around the edges.
Let the dust and lust fall into the sky.
I spread my skin, hiding the unsightful scars.
Dazzling instead with my peacock stance.
These petals of purity, grown forth from a rugged soil.
Dance in the sunlight.
Coaxing ruby and daffodil stares.
Split open this mouth and allow words to flow.
Sweet like a mountain stream.
Coursed through volcanic changes of assumption.
Let you kiss my lava lips, that sting that tranquil water.
Turn my tale towards the sun.
Picked like photosynthesis on evolution’s hide.
What grows there they will chatter.
The borning out of terror-former.
Shocked out of a system that was impaled in the past.
Growing new delights to tantalise and snap.
Around this Venus.
Be on your guard and handle with gloves.
This thorny rose delivered from Eden.

Future is bright

The Future sits on fingertips.
What pulls a thread through?
Plucking emotions to tie on strings around fingers.
To wed golden bands around the past.
Memories shake and shiver into oneness.
Leaving the dark where it falls.
Lay your head down, so heavy and haloed.
As the lens of life splits with love.
The future swims in your soul like the coy in the pond.
Beautiful and patient.
Intent to disturb the waters of our heart.
To be swum and carried at equal measure.
All must end and all must fade.
The pain and challenges within melt away.
For nothing lasts forever.
And tomorrow is a brand new day.

Forever winter (part 9)

The Story so far or Listen to this episode


Blueberry tart and tears

“What’s wrong?” The girl asked, watching the lady step back inside and lock her door. She was muttering something under her breath when the girl asked again. “Are you okay?” Concern showing from a mask which beheld no emotion. It travelled in waves to the lady, she felt it in her bones. Looking over, she smiled back quickly, calmed by her presence.

“Nothing, I hope. We’re safe inside here my dear, I just felt some bad energy from outside just now, that’s all.” She said, putting the cane back to where she found it and coming back towards the fire. “I’ll let you know if it builds to anything we need to be alarmed by. But this little cottage can handle a lot thrown its way.” She came back over towards the fireplace, the flames roaring nicely still. “Why, you’ve drunk all your tea. That calls for more, and a little cake too I’d say.” She said, taking a little blueberry tart out of the tin she had brought in on the tea tray.

“Who was at the door?” The girl asked, curiously.

“That was a little rub of a boy called Timothy Sanderson. He came around today in the hope of tales and stories. But alas, one is being invented now as I sit here with you and might just be finished in time for him tomorrow when he comes back again….and gets the correct day.” She said, sneaking a blueberry tart for herself from the tin.

“I could feel his warmth for you, but also something else. Infatuation?” The girl asked. The lady couldn’t help but laugh at this. Bits of the cake spraying onto the copper coloured rug on the floor.

“Oh my, that would be his growing fascination with a little girl called Stacey Izzana. He really does have it bad. No, he sees me as the crazy old woman who tells stories and feeds the other children chocolates and biscuits when they should be eating fruit.” She said, eyeing up another cake in the small little tin.

“He seemed like a pure soul.” The girl said, tasting her own cake.

“Yes, they all are the ones that come here. Eager minds looking for adventure and intellect. These books fill them with both, and I’m happy to be the tool in which to help with that.” She leaned forward slightly, inching to the edge of her seat. “But you, you my dear are an Imamiahi, are you not? It is you that will bring us that adventure, and the change I’ve felt coming for some time.”

The girl finished her cake before replying, all the while looking deep into the soul of the lady before her. She knew where she was heading of course, before she even left Europa. She knew the journey would be the way it was and what type of soul who would greet her when she stepped out of her cocoon. Best laid plans. But the lady surprised her still. The house and the energy were not something she’d come across before. This woman only wanted to help. It was a selflessness that she had not come across in her previous encounters. She could read the makeup of another being like you would read the ingredients on the back of a cereal box. Formulating and registering the light levels that were contained within. But much like the box, it could not tell you the taste, the character or how it might make you feel. Inside the girl felt something she hadn’t felt before.

“Yes, I’ve been called that in the past. You are a kind person, I know that; I can feel it.” She said, blue tears leaving her eyes, falling upwards to the ceiling.

“This, this feels like home.”


 

Sailing into your soul

Though the universe spins on your finger.
And the moon sets and hums in your eyes.
I can see the space left in-between us.
The road of good intentions and pride.
Now as the ghosts settle into their cupboards.
And the demons hide under our bed.
I will drip further into your madness.
Caught up in your sleepy cobwebs.
For my soul is no longer loyal.
It betrays my needs for yours.
It would throw me into your ocean.
To further the movement of your oars.
As your little boat heads towards Neverland.
And my truth falls slowly to sleep.
Into your dreams I will tiptoe.
Blind to the wonders so deep.
I renounce my agnostic position.
I bow to every whim you command.
I will crucify my own indignation.
Through the flicker and twist of your hand.
Because all I want is your happiness.
To germinate from our love and our light.
That is why I cling like a barnacle.
To your boat and your soul so tight.

The Deep (Nothing but I am)

Wednesday,

I finally sorted out those boxes today, the ones from the move. I wasn’t sure if I would be staying here long, the laziness in me took control and had left them for ages. I want to make things more ordered now, unpack my life and gain some structure. I went through the boxes, and I can see why I had left them. Photos and knick-knacks, memories and pain rolled around some of the smaller boxes inside. I had forgotten I had bundled most of it up together.

But it wasn’t all disruptive to my soul. I found the seahorse mum had brought me back from her trip to the Caribbean. There was a starfish too, but I always liked the seahorse best. It reminds me of her now when I look at it, but in a hopeful way. She may be far away, but this little item refreshes the world as a reminder she was with me, she lived and thought enough of me to bring me something she knew I would love. I miss you mum, I will see you again soon though….I’ll make the effort.

THE DEEP

Swim, with a mouthful of stars.
And kiss these lips underwater.
Pick a pearl that cloisters inside my mind.
Clutch it deep with your bones.
Washing over your heart.
Lining your veins in mother of pearl beauty.
Inside, all still wet and curious.
Like the seahorses that swim here in the shallows.
Your thoughts call to me like the sea inside a shell.
Echoing a world which wavers on the edge of temptation.
Suck the salt from my skin which slips over you.
Crush me in rapid waves of emotion.
As my fingers move to a new tide.
Parading across your body, wallowing in your deep.


Taken from Nothing But I am


 

Come home

A sky threatening to swallow us whole.
Disappear into blue.
Lost in me and you, and the pulls of the earth.
You wandered too far into the outback.
Too far from my feathered touch.
Now the oceans recede.
And the heavens close.
The stardust of hope may sprinkle these sheets.
Matched by tears of absence.
Yet inside a birdlike song sings.
Come home.
Come home.

Forever winter (part 8)

The Story so far or Listen to this episode


The snow that had collected just above the window frame drifted down in a fine powder, dislodged by the loud knocking coming from the door. Inside, the lady and the girl looked over to where the banging was coming from. The knock was repeated, this time with more force.

“Stay here, and please; don’t say a word.” The lady said, and the girl nodded in reply, taking a sip from the glass; her throat changing colour as the liquid fell inside her like a fading rainbow. The lady ambled to the door and grabbed a walking stick she kept by the umbrella stand. She didn’t need the stick of course, her bones were weary, but her health was fine, she merely liked how it looked walking along in the snow sometimes; inspecting things with a gentle prod. Now, she held a tight hold on the top of the cane (shaped like a giant snow globe) and cautiously opened the door, catching the knocker mid-knock.

“Oh!” She said, a smile widening like that of the door. “Timothy, what brings you this way?”

She looked out into the snowy gloom; the disappearing light had blanketed the world in an encroaching grey, like soup lapping at a rim of a bowl. A small boy stood on her doorstep, his feet in wellington boots far too big for him. He was wrapped up against the storm, but his nose was as red as a holly berry.

“Oh, hey. Sorry, I didn’t think you could hear me, thought you might be sleeping.” Timothy shouted, compensating for the wind by yelling like only a child can. The lady chuckled.

“Well, if I were, I’m sure it would’ve woken me up. Anyway, come in come in.” She said, beckoning him inside out of the cold.

“Is Stacey here yet?” He asked, remaining on the doorstep.

“Stacey? Why would she be here?” She asked him, puzzled somewhat.

“Well, it’s Thursday. You said for us to come for the stories on Thursday, remember? I even brought some biscuits my mum made.” He replied, shaking a small tin he held in his hands, containing, now no doubt, shards of biscuits. “I just wanted to know if Stacey was here yet, if not I would go to her house now and walk with her.”

The lady could see the twinkle of opportunity in his eyes.  Her mind flickered to her calendar and checked the date. Nope, he was a day early. Timothy was always overanxious. She chuckled a little and told him he’d gotten the wrong day. As his face fell, she turned quickly and took something out of the small drawer on the sideboard near her. She handed him a small purple glove; its index finger was slightly frayed with a long loose thread which looked like a long woollen nail.

“She left this here last week though, perhaps you might be so kind as to drop it by to her today.” She said. His eyes grew large as he took the little mitten, holding it like a small treasure. He set off straight away back down the little path calling out to her as he went.

“Thanks, see you tomorrow!”

The biscuits beyond repair now, flung this way and that in the little tin as he rounded the corner of her fence and disappeared up the lane. She stood and watched him go, enjoying the scene of the darkening light and the heavy snow which spread a happiness inside of her.

But then it stopped. Cut off quickly as she saw the shadows. They reached up and under the little fence she had at the bottom of her garden. Tall and thin wisps of dark, like the fingers of a demon. It all grew suddenly quiet as the wind dropped and the silence that accompanies snow descended.

She couldn’t see him, she only felt he was there. The presence. The energy she could normally feel bubbling way off over the woods but marked on every page of her treasured magic book. Like a compass it pointed the way to the light and dark, and she felt the shadows creeping nearer and nearer to her. She shut the door hastily, warding off the nefarious nature by her own incantation and signs that kept her little cottage safe.

She never saw the gentleman of the boxes, though she knew he was there. His little eyes peering at her from the trees as he skulked around to her backyard.


 

Days of correction

We wait for you, as the heavens fall.
As the skin begins to be pulled from our bones.
The sea foam swallows.
Thunder follows.
And all around the sparks flicker.
We wait for you to catch up.
The lead in your blood to bleed out.
A correction, an alteration.
A mind frame recalibration.
I wait for you, till the end of time.
Modifying what was placed inside your DNA.
The world is ending, and time hangs like a necklace.
Heavy and beautiful around your neck.
You need to move faster.
Evolve and leave the husk of darkness resigned,
to a space only the ghosts will welcome.
We are in the age of correction.
A simple state of detection.
Of knowing what to take, and what to leave behind.

Glow

The little lights inside that twinkle.
Burn bright and strong within.
A beacon like a small church steeple.
To good, to god and sin.
Yet the ones that burn the brightest.
Must therefore burn half as long.
And your flame has burned the shiniest.
So soon, from our eyes, you’ll be gone.
But do not let your heart fall in sadness.
Or collapse into grey despair.
For your shining light has led the bravest.
Who will always remember you were there.

Forever winter (part 7)

The Story so far or Listen to this episode


Recede to reason

He’d consumed the book. Reading it hurriedly in the candlelight of his cave. He’d red it once through and went straight back to the beginning to read it again. Days passed and he’d not emerged from his cave, breaking his concentration only to hydrate and use the bathroom. The words and the knowledge mesmerised him. He’d never been one for books before. He thought stories and fables were just things to tell children before they went to bed. He’d seen the kids from the village, hurrying to that little house by the stream to sit and listen to tales and wonders. Foolish kids. They should be out working, doing, playing, being. Not stuck inside listening to yarns that only take place in the mind. What good could come of that?

But this book was different. This book showed him a way to be that was not fiction. These things he was reading told him how he could change his life for the better. How he could master the weather himself, make the wind blow the direction he wanted it to. To even stop death and bring the things he wanted back to life.

But there was a cost to be paid, like there always was.

He was smart enough to know a warning when he saw it, and the book was riddled with them. And he wasn’t foolish enough not to heed these warnings either. He practised in secret, squirreled away underground. Little things at first, then moving on to larger and more complicated ones. He left his body many times, if not his cave, and before long he was very knowledgeable about the ways of Lunamaji and where it all could take him.

The magic was old, and he’d found it hard to master it with his cumbersome closed off mind. His heart was not corrupt but shut down to a lot of ideas and things that at first made little sense to him. The nature of the magic was to do the impossible, and the gentlemen of the boxes was compounded by reason. He knew what was here though, a great store of energy that would help him change his circumstance. For though he had eked out a life underground, it was not really by his own choosing. If he could control and master the energy; then he knew his own destiny would be back in his own hands.

But the power that he craved at first, shifted and changed. In the beginning, he’d wanted to see if the magic worked, to see if reading something could arouse a change in the very makeup of the earth. To have a little power himself. But he soon learned, much to the cart seller’s warning, that it could consume and cause havoc. He could see how a life could slip away from him, if too caught up in the magic. He didn’t want that. He wasn’t an evil soul, merely bitter by the hand life had dealt him. If he could go back though.

So he had changed his mind, as so many do, and instead sought out the one thing he knew the book could help him with. Aside from stopping the damn snow.

And that one thing had fallen from the sky that very morning.


 

Diverted by a distant light

Dreaming hopeful and sifting sand.
A hollowed doubt in a burning hand.
As eyes peel back and strip the moon.
This silent feeling is gone too soon.
We count the days that fall like birds.
With tarred up feathers and swallowed words.
Two throbbing hearts break forth and run.
Leaving shadows and souls in that dying sun.

 

 

Delayed doxology

The pain turned to gold as the moon rose.
The loss of self-control and the shedding of time.
Dropped like leaves over a diamond lake of soul.
Always late, but now just on time.
Pealing away a skin that once bound.
A body so rooted in the now.
To each side there sits an angel.
Close enough to touch.
Calling me higher, yet I remain.
Being good, being whole, being of service.
The dark begins to melt into light.
The kiss of god, and the whisper of the divine.
Reaffirms my mind, that it all was meant to be.
Now I shudder in doxology.
Praise not just the creator for the air in my lungs.
But the lungs of god, which breathes new air.
I have lost my religion.
And found god where I least expected.
Hidden away, yet smiling at my fall.
Knowing the rise was good for all.

Forever winter (part 6)

The Story so far or Listen to this episode


The gentlemen of the boxes

Though the perpetual snow covered everyone and everything in a magical flurry, some homes escaped the gingerbread icing of the winter dusting. Though treacherous at times, the snow that fell in the area of Ravensbrook was mostly welcomed. The small village itself was well known for its snow festivals which would be held often during the year. While the borders of the county were at the whim of the regular weather patterns, Ravensbrook enjoyed the snowfall of the mountain passes more than anywhere nearby. But not everyone was happy with the snow, and one in particular made sure to be out of it as much as they could.

He had once had a large cabin on the other side of the woods which backed on to the small cottage by the stream. His was a stern roughly built cabin, reeking of ash fires and masculinity. It’s coarsely built structure was a testament of his own strength, having built the place himself. But it did not appeal to the eye and was poorly landscaped. Fresh animal kills were strewn around, the bones of which would be stacked sometimes by an outhouse.  He lived there alone, stuffing small woodland animals with sawdust and brooding over a life that was slipping away from him. That is to say, lived there, for now the gentlemen of the boxes lived underground.

One day, on a particularly snowy afternoon whilst trudging back to his cabin, he’d stopped with his fresh kill slung over his shoulders. The snow had covered his face and was blotting out the view of the track he was following home. He’d stood there, a human snowman for much longer than an idle man should in the cold snow, thinking and pondering and wondering over the incessant weather. Raising his fist in the air, he cursed the sky and the lady who lived in that small little cottage, telling tales and playing god.

He stormed home and packed the few possession he could into a duffle bag and set off into the depths of the woods. Thick in thorns and thistles, the snow drifts piled high in the dark and gloomy woodland. But soon enough, he’d found what he was looking for. A small opening in the ground marked by two huge boulders which led down underneath the earth. He’d found this long ago, chasing a fox that had sought shelter from his murderous hands. The opening expanded deeper underground; a vast cave backed up with many little recesses built into the earth. Here he intended to live and be away from that infernal snow and cold which stung his bones.

Over time, his little cave house filled with things and skeletons. The shells of the creatures that he didn’t keep in his boxes. He would stuff them with sawdust and set them into little boxes and crates, depending on the size. He would mark them all and catalogue what he had. In his noahistic mind, he would covert two of each creature, stripping one of the fleshy casings where he could peak at the ivory bones underneath, and stuff and box the other. His collection grew in time, and much of his cave was taken over by the boxes that he would stack high to the roof.

One day, when he was in town selling some animal meet, he happened to notice the traveling cart man who’d stopped in the small village square. The man would peddle, in all weathers, around the villages with a huge caravan of objects pushed and slotted onto the back of his trailer. This travelling circus of curiosities was much welcomed where it went, for he was always known to bring treasures and wonders to that little part of the world.

The gentlemen of the boxes never usually bothered himself with that sort of thing, but something that day seemed to call to him, picking at his mind and heart. He’d trundled over to the cart, impossibly piled high that day with brass lamps, copper kettles, crystal glasses and books. One book in particular stood out to him; a purple bound one the size of a bible. He slid it out from between a jewellery box and iron fire grate and looked at the cover.

The image on the front was nothing new to him, he’d seen the real thing a hundred times, but the way it was drawn unsettled something inside him. Dislodging some idleness and bringing forth some action. The skull of a creature, that of a deer, stared back at him. The eye sockets glowing with a purple like flame tickled the hairs on the back of his neck. He’d just begun to open the book when the seller called over to him.

“Ah, I see you’re interested in the Lunamaji.” He came around the side of the cart and up to the man.

“Maybe. How much for the book?” He replied, gruffly.

“Ten Quartz to you good sir, anyone interested in such deep allurement deserves to get a good price.” The man held out his hand in a kindly way. The gentlemen of the boxes huffed, thinking it was still too much for a book.

He furrowed his brow and grumbled some more before tumbling some coins into the man’s outstretched hand. It was a steep price he thought, but he had the money. There was something interesting about the book, something he couldn’t explain, a gravity only he could feel and had never felt before. He had to have it, so he paid the price, which was reasonable considering what it offered. As he turned to walk away, the old man grabbed at his arm suddenly.

“Be warned though, this is not for the faint of heart or weak of conscience. There are many things in there that need to remain within those pages, and just to reside in the mind.” He’d said, hastening a smile to take the edge off his warning.

“Nothing about me has ever been weak.” The man replied and stormed off with the book under his arm.


 

Miracles

A Splinter in the soul, the hidden fractures of the heart.
Allowing the pain of the world to seep in.
Engulfing you in dark.
Faith tingles on your fingertips like the whisper of god.
Little vibrations at first that can’t be shook away.
The angels whom surround, now welcomed in.
Outside of you, there is daylight.
Yet the world is like night.
Dark and thick in its melancholic soup.
Feasting on your sorrow like a hungry ghost.
How can you feel the sun like the others.
When the cold breath of death hisses on a constant.
Yet the devil had it’s day, and didn’t win.
And deep inside, much hidden within.
A tiny spark, a pilot light burns.
Turning the tears on your face to fire.
Conjuring something other, like divine combustion.
A miracle, one of many, waiting to burst forth.
God laughs and taunts, hoping to threaten more.
Watching the fireworks that bloom like pain.
Hoping they come forth, like a waterfall.
Miracles, to change your state of death and decay.
To transform the darkness to light.
The night forever into day.

Forever winter (part 5)

The Story so far or Listen to this episode


detach and connect

Steam began to gather around them now, the snow and air evaporated temporarily while the remains of the comet and the contents hissed and spewed in the hole in the ground. The lady of the jars didn’t hesitate, she hopped into the hole and began pulling away at the stray tendrils that had not joined the body. She pulled and heaved, working it free and pulling it away like a tooth from a root. Her hands were raw from the cold, but the blue liquid quickly covered them, and the pain subsided. She was resourceful, years of chopping wood for her fire and toiling her own yard had given her strength and determination. She lifted the body like a doll off the floor, heaving it over her shoulder; the doll now a sack of flour to be carried into her cottage.

Snow began to cover the hole, the marked earth smeared black and blue began to be covered once more in the blanket of white the lady of the jars had always cherished. Soon there would be little evidence of any visitor. It was a secret she was eager to keep to herself, and with that thought she hurried quickly inside.

Closing the door, she took the body over to the fire in her living room. Her house was sturdy, and she could only just hear the howling blizzard outside, the fire crackling over the sound of the perpetual winter. She placed the body carefully, then stoked the fire before taking off her cardigan which was now wet with melted snow and ice. The blue liquid began to slacken, but it did not pool off onto the floor; instead it collected into droplets which lifted up into the air, disappearing like tiny ghosts.  She stood back and watched the transformation, the cocooned being separating into the body of a girl. The hair and skin humming to life with a florescent radiance which faded to a healthy glow.

The girl’s eyes suddenly blinked open and she sat up. Her eyes, those azure wells that pierced the room flashed and opened up a doorway to another space. A land beyond the stars. The lady of the jars handed her a throw which she kept draped across her good chair, and wordlessly the girl surrounded herself in it; embracing the warmth and kindness from the protection it offered. They sat there in the quiet for some time, having a conversation with no words, but levelling out their worlds.

“Tea, that always helps a situation.” The lady said, standing up slowly as not to frighten the girl. The ageless entity that sat on her rug in front of the warming heat. “You stay by the fire, I’ll bring it in.” She said, bustling out into the kitchen. She boiled the kettle and took down the jar of green chai, tipping the leaves merrily into the giant teapot she always had on the side. Though she lived alone, she always devoured copious amounts of tea, and the giant teapot was a testament to it.

She filled it up with the bubbling water, and added some crushed almonds, swirling them around inside. She grabbed some small glasses and returned to the living room with the refreshments, popping them down on the side. Though it had been snowing hard and the day was dark, it was now growing darker she noticed, finding the lamp light from her path gaining more strength in the encroaching shadows.

“You must have travelled far, here drink this; it’ll help.” She said, handing the girl a small glass of the tea.

The girl reached out with her swan like hand and the lady noticed it then, the etching on her arm. It was a pattern, words even, in some sort of language that looked beautiful and strange. She was sure her book could tell her; it always had the answers. These weren’t just dead prints like tattooed skin. The pattern and words swam with life, like a moving aquarium dance of blue hue and light, rippling across her skin; growing strong then faint like a conflicting idea.

“Thank you.” The girl said, reaching for the glass. Her teeth split apart for her to speak, having fused together on her journey. The words were understandable to her ears, but anyone else would have understood also, the language fitting the ear of the listener, wrapping around the mind and settling in the soul. A sweet whisper of a voice, like a feather landing on a petal. Delicate, but hiding a secret strength of flight.

“Are you…” The lady began but was interrupted by an abrupt and determined knock at her blue door. It wasn’t the pheasants this time, that she was sure of.


 

Brace yourself

Please don’t hurt me, you don’t understand.
It’s my heart that is beating, bleeding there in your hand.
So forgive this emotion and whispering plea.
But it longs to be loved, not stamped and set free.

As it’s nearing the end, the potential is high.
For it to crumble right there, and for this dream to die.
So I ask you again, as I would an old friend.
To think for a moment, to heal and then mend.

The first thing to notice will be relief on my face.
Words in your ear like divine ecstatic grace.
Which promise a future, right here in the now.
To love you forever, no matter when where or how.

So please think again, with your hand around my heart.
It struggles already, with a squeeze I’ll go dark.
Instead kiss it better and pour love in my eyes.
And kiss me forever, till the day that we die.